


Ploughing a field

by islasands



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-23
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2019-01-04 14:34:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12170811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/islasands/pseuds/islasands





	Ploughing a field

"J'ai cru entendre"from the movie "Les chansons d'amour"

Performed by Louis Garrel and Grégoire Leprince-Ringuet 

 

  


 

 

Yves is in New York. It is snowing. He is the last person Adam needs to see. But the only one he wants... 

“What’s his name?” his friend asked. Adam hesitated. He knew the inevitable joke would be the follow-up, and he was right. “ Yves,” he said. 

“Adam and Yves,” his friend laughed. 

Adam smiled. He avoided answering his friend’s questions. By mentioning Yves he had hoped to find a hard surface for his emotions to land on, emotions that kept flying out of him unexpectedly, disturbing the calm skies of his composure. Yves' call was the last thing he needed. He had an album to make, meetings to attend. He was trying to write and it was proving difficult. He had a wealth of experiences, new and old, to draw on, but when he lowered the bucket into the well of his soul it kept coming back up empty. Why?

He finished the day’s business and went home. He sat on his balcony and watched the evening dressing as though for a night out. There was something feminine in the delicacy of its movements as it slowly changed, slipping on a midnight blue garment, bordered on the horizon with pale yellow satin and sprinkled randomly with tiny jewels. To finish off its look the evening placed a large mother-of-pearl pendant around its throat. Adam stared at the moon and let the thought of Yves fly out. 

He saw him walking ahead of him, his gait so casually graceful that his clothing was insignificant, irrelevant. One hand in his jacket pockets, the other brushing his hair back. “Those hands,” he thought. They were the hands of a musician or painter, with long fingers and slender thumbs. Well, they had strung him up, that's for sure, strung him like a guitar or violin, carefully winding each string until it was time to turn the tuning heads. Adam winced. He was about to chase these memories away when Yves’ face suddenly appeared before him in such vivid detail he might have been there in person. The face smiled. Adam inwardly recoiled from that fucking smile. A smile that was more in his eyes than in his lips. 

“Yet that’s how I like to sing” he thought. “With the meaning in the music, not the words.” 

And he went to bed. 

The next day it snowed without stopping. The studio session was embarassingly unfruitful. He mind was, as his guitarist pointed out, elsewhere. But where? By the time he had eaten at the restaurant and shared drinks at the bar with his closest friend, he was too tired to care about his emotional impasse. He walked to the car and stood next to it, looking upward, waiting as though for a blessing from the streetlight’s orange halo filled with drifting flakes. He made a gesture of futility to the falling snow and watched as flakes fell into his open palms. 

“You miss me. Already, you miss me.” Yves’ voice was so muffled it might have been a voice in his head. But no, Yves was there, close at hand, leaning on a car on the opposite side of the narrow lane. Adam’s arms dropped to his sides. He stared at the figure opposite. He wanted to get in his car and drive away. He wanted to run across the road and hide himself in the secret of that man’s smile. ‘Fuck,” he thought,”this man is fucking my mind. I can’t go there again. I can’t”. 

He said these things to himself as he suddenly lurched forward and quickly closed the gap between them, forcefully plastering himself against Yves’ body, kissing him as though he had been crossing a desert and had just come upon a well. Yves laughed at the ferocity of his kisses, fending him off at the same time as holding him tight. He held up his hand and covered Adam’s lips. He waited until he knew Adam could control himself. 

The snow fell between their faces. Yves withdrew his hand. He tilted his head slightly. His expression was one of scrutiny. “Vous me manquez. Vous neigez. Dans ici.” He tapped Adam’s chest. “Dans ici,” he said. ‘It snows.”

Adam looked away, caught off guard. He went to speak but instead leant forward slowly until their foreheads touched. 

“Venez avec moi et nous ferons quelques déchirures,” Yves said softly when Adam finally withdrew. He traced two lines downward on Adam’s cheeks. “In English,” he smiled, “I am asking you to come with me, and we will make tears together. Right here,” He traced his forefingers down Adam’s cheeks once more.

“I’m not sad,” Adam grinned. “I want to laugh, not cry.”

Yves laughed. He pushed him away, but only so that he could take his arm and guide him across the lane. Adam opened the passenger door. He got in the driver’s side and for a moment felt hesitant. Yves reached over, gathered up the scarf around his throat and used it to pull his slowly towards him. His expression had changed from amusement to severity. 

“Vous croyez que vous êtes véridiques,” he said. 

Adam shook his head, uncomprehending.

“Vous croyez que vous êtes véridiquesa,” Yves repeated, scanning Adam’s face, his lips, his eyes. “You think you are truthful,” he translated. He grinned. The darkness between them began to swim. What on earth did he mean? 

Yves twisted the scarf, tightening its grip on Adam’s throat. 

“You are a mountain. Tall. Seeing everywhere.” He pulled Adam’s face closer. "But not to me,” Yves continued. He took Adam’s lips between his teeth, slowly drew them together and bit them. Adam flinched and pulled away. In the orange light Yves’ face had suddenly seemed that of a bird of prey. The arrogant curve of his nose reminded him of a beak. The bite had hurt his lips. He wiped them, instinctively suspecting he would find blood. 

Yves released him and pushed him away. “To me, you are, how do you say?” he gestured with his hands. “A field.” 

Adam removed his scarf. He started the car. He had no idea where they were going. The greater part of him did not want to go. 

“Ready to be ploughed,” Yves said, just as they pulled away from the kerb. Adam did not not answer, couldn’t have answered. In fact, he was trying to pretend he had not heard that last, almost matter of fact, remark. He felt troubled but determined, desperate but calm. Yves did not so much get under his skin as he made it feel alive. Uncomfortably alive. As though every receptor within and without his body was naked, but buried alive in snow...

In his halting but accurate English, Yves gave him directions, then sat back with his eyes closed. Adam kept glancing at him, at the hollow of his cheeks, the fineness of this brows, the sensitive mouth that turned down in the corners even when he smiled. His hands lay on his knees, fingers spread, and Adam noticed how irregularly they were shaped, tapering but crooked, the joints pronounced, the veins prominent. He looked ahead. He became aware of the rhythm of the wipers. The beat reminded him of a phrase he had been singing during the session. He went over the phrase in his mind, laying down the melody line and then singing a counter-melody over it. He forgot Yves was there and began to sing aloud, repeating the phrase while they waited at a red light. The light changed, and he remembered himself. He looked at Yves. 

“This is it” he said, turning into a street he vaguely knew. Friends had a gallery here, and there were others in the vicinity. Yves told him to slow down and they came to a stop outside a row of shops. He peered at the shop fronts. He recognized one of them. He had been there, years ago, to see an exhibition of glass. His friend had bought a piece, a large bowl whose glass resembled a brackish stream. Strands of weed swirled around it. 

“Yes. We are arrived,” Yve said. He smiled at Adam. ‘Come.”

Yves opened a door that led to a stairway. A light from the landing above cast ghastly green light. They went down a short hallway and Yves unlocked a door and turned on the lighting. Adam was not surprised to find they were in a small, cosily warm gallery filled with strange artworks. He walked into the main gallery, staring at the objects. Or rather, staring into them. The frames, if you could call them that, were made of entwined branches laden with realistic foliage and fruits. Each enclosed a mirror. The lighting alternated from light to dark, so that sometimes the reflections were stark and electrically bright, at other times soft and gleaming.

“You did these?” he asked, turning to find Yves. But Yve was not in the room. Adam heard cupboards opening and drinks being poured. He continued looking at the artworks, stopping to stare at himself in a full length mirror set at the back of a portico of dark glossy foliage. He took a step closer to the mirror. He watched himself taking the step and then started as Yves entered the reflection. Without looking away from their reflected faces he took the drink Yves offered to him. Their gazes locked in the mirror. 

“My brother is the artiste,” Yve said. “He believes ‘les miroirs sont des jardins de vérité’”

“Gardens,” Adam said. He sipped his drink. Yves shrugged. “Jardins de verite,” he said. He gently kissed the nape of Adam’s neck. “Gardens of truth. Follow me,” he said. 

They walked into an adjacent gallery space that was dimly lit. In the centre of the room was another art work. Again there was a portico of thick foliage, but instead of framing a single mirror, it framed the doorway to a cubicle lined entirely with mirrors. Beside the foliage was a clothes rack with empty hangers. Yve took one of these and held it out. “Vos vêtements, s'il vous plait.” Adam frowned, then laughed at his guess at translation. “Most definitely - no,” he said. Yves took the glass out of his hand and placed it on the ground. He removed his own jacket and hung it on the rack. He undid his belt and let it clatter to the floor. Adam took a step back. “Yves,” he began, but Yves was coming towards him. “Juste une petite vérité,’ he said. “You fear that, ma fleur?” 

"I fear you,” Adam admitted, as much to himself as to Yves. He struggled to prevent Yves removing his jacket but knew his fight was unconvincing. For the moment Yves touched him he felt the betrayal of his flesh, the desertion of his voluntary powers. His body refused to obey him. The smile Yves gave him, turning down at the corners as though in pain, was enough to make him erect – and Yves knew it, glancing down at his pants as he undid the buttons of his shirt. “Yves,” Adam repeated, simultaneously catching at Yves’ wrist and catching his breath. 

“Oui?” Yves said, drawing his shirt down – and taking Adam’s hand with him. He unzipped Adam’s pants and slowly knelt in front of him, his face inches from Adam’s cock when it sprang free. his pants crumpled around his ankles. “Oui?” Yves repeated, letting Adam’s cock bounce against his lips. He looked up at Adam. He grinned, sardonically. Adam’s cock jerked and struck his lips and cheek. 

“I am your avatar,’ he said. He took Adam’s cock in his hand and slowly drew his hand up until a drop appeared. He licked the drop. “Je vous vois,” he said. Adam relaxed slightly. He put his hands on Yves’ shoulders. “I see you too,” he replied. 

Yves laughed. One by one he removed Adam’s shoes and socks. He casually flicked Adam’s cock with finger and thumb as he stood up. Still laughing, and murmuring things Adam couldn’t understand, he caressed Adam’s hair, his face, the sides of his arms. Adam tried to respond, tried to make the embrace reciprocal, but Yves refused, lightly but firmly brushing away his hands. “Let us see, together,” he said. He waved at the artwork in the middle of the room. 

Adam suddenly felt like a child being sent to his room. He felt the awkwardness of his nakedness in front of a clothed person. Something about the artwork, - the cubicle of mirrors, the extravagant foliage surrounding the entrance, the setting itself of a gallery where everything is for display, made him want to cover his erection. Yves walked over to the clothes rack with his clothes and one by one hung them up. 

“Genoux,’ he said. He patted his knees. 

And as though he had no choice Adam knelt on the floor and, to his utter confusion and self-incredulity, he began to crawl.

He saw Yves shifting his feet to make way, and as he crawled into the mirrored cubicle he looked up at the reflection of his own face. Behind him, casting the cublicle into shadows, he could see Yves standing with his arms raised, clutching the pretend vegetation, his shirt open, and a glass tilting in one hand. 

“Now what?” he asked. The advent of viewing his reflected self had suddenly made him feel adventurous. He was a player in a play. He half smiled at himself. 

“Maintenant je ferai l'amour à vous deux.” Adam watched Yves drink from his glass before he suddenly disappeared from the doorway. He looked down at the mirror floor and inspected the reflection of his underside, - his slightly drooping gut, his dangling cock, the cockscomb of his hair falling forward. His knees and hands were growing cold from the glass. He sat up, sitting back on his feet. His reflection looked back at him. Now his cock lay between his thighs. He sucked in his stomach as a concession to vanity. He frowned at himself and was about to stand up when Yves returned, carrying a chair, which he placed behind Adam, positioning it on the mirror floor. 

Adam watched as Yves undid his pants and sat down. For a moment he could only smell but not see what Yves was doing. Yves bent over him and pulled him back gently until Adam was between his legs. He felt Yves’ cock on the back of his neck, felt Yves pushing it against his hair, and then he saw it, in the reflection, nudging at his ear. Yves stroked himself with one hand and slid the other around Adam’s head, across his face, laying his middle finger across his lips. Adam looked into the reflection of Yves’ eyes. His own hand slid down between his legs. He closed his eyes and opened his mouth and grasped Yves finger with teeth. 

“Montre,” Yves whispered. “Open your eyes.” Adam opened them. Right next to his throat he could see Yves masturbating, and below, in the damp nest of his lap, his own hand ministering. His teeth bit down on the bone of Yves’ finger. “Montre!” Yves commanded as his eyes began to close again, but Adam could hardly bear to do it. His vision began to blur. His lips, his erection, the bumping on his neck by Yves hand, the smell of Yves’ cock right next to his cheek, - they all felt agonizingly heightened by the feeling of multiplicity, of knowing he was surrounded, above, below and beside, by reflections of his masturbating self.

And of Yves’ figure, leaning slightly forward, his dark eyes smiling into Adam’s eyes, his white shirt falling from one shoulder, his hand spread across Adam’s face as though to make him silent. 

Without warning Yves suddenly put his arms beneath Adam’s armpits and pulled him up. Adam, taken by surprise and unsure of Yves’ strength, threw his free hand forward to save himself from falling. But he didn’t release his cock. He watched himself continue masturbating as his body twisted and buckled when Yves opened his anus with his fingers and finger fucked him until he was ready. He watched his mouth grimacing as Yves pulled him down on his cock. He noticed his hair rising and falling as again and again he was lurched upward. He noticed the blood had left the hand that was spread out on the mirror, supporting his weight. He felt the brushing fall of Yves' hair when Yves bit his throat and scraped his teeth down the back of his neck. His anus felt like a band of fire. At the exact moment he ejaculated Yves ran his fingernails down his back, digging them into the sensitive sides of his waist. Adam watched his semen spraying on the mirror floor. 

Yves took hold of Adam’s hips and pulled him hard against himself.”Maintenant,” he said, pressing and pushing Adam orward so he could penetrate and erupt in the deepest part of him. Adam juddered, supporting himself on his outstretched arms. He could feel the faint pulsing deep in his anus. He felt Yves rest his head on his back. 

Yves leaned to one side and smiled at Adam's reflection. He slowly ran his hands over Adam’s nipples and gently tugged the rings. Adam watched his own mouth open. “Fuck. Fuck you!” he managed to get out as his cock sprang forward. This entire time Yves had not once touched his chest, and now, when he least wanted or needed it, his nipples felt like live wires connected to his cock. Yves laughed against his back. 

Adam stared into his own eyes as though into the eyes of a stranger. He felt Yves’ chest shaking as he laughed. The stranger that was himself in the mirror raised one eyebrow and Adam grinned. He began to laugh uncontrollably. His reflection's laughter was infectious. He was still laughing when Yves lifted him, eased out his cock, and turned him around to face him. He looked up at Adam, his expression one of benign amusement. Adam cupped Yves’ face with his hands and bent down to kiss his forehead. He couldn’t do more than that. He just couldn't stop laughing. He clutched Yves’ head to his chest then let it go. He threw his arms in the air. “Fuuuuuuck!” he yelled.

Yves pushed him from his lap and they stood facing one another. Yves calmly did up his pants as they looked into each other’s eyes. Adam's fresh erection slowly subsided. 

“Ahhhh...” Yves said. “Voici! Je laboure le champ...” He smiled his oddly painful smile. “I plough the field. You bring the seeds.”

He held up his hands and used his forefingers to drag the laughter tears down Adam’s cheeks. 

Adam’s smile and hilarity suddenly ended. Yves took him in his arms where he felt weightless, safe, concealed. His heart felt so light and open he could feel the snow falling inside it, falling, falling. “You break me,” Adam said, but not as though he expected or wanted an answer.

Nor did he receive one

 


End file.
